Last Recollections
by FreakingScholastic
Summary: Hermione Granger is fighting a war against Voldemort's Death Eaters. With reasonable hope ebbing away, she decides to write her life story, in the hope that another magical community can use it to prepare for Voldemort. She begins with the story of her encounter with the magical world, and her first year at Hogwarts. (Alternate Universe Fic)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **I don't like extensive author's notes, as I feel they detract from the story. I'll keep this short.

This is a divergent history, following the viewpoint of Hermione Granger, rather than Harry Potter. I've moved the timeline forward ~20 years, so that it is set in the modern day. Most everything else you should pick up from the story. Happy reading.

Disclaimer:

I neither created, wrote, nor own the rights to the Harry Potter books. I may create some original characters or new plots, but these all rest upon the foundation created by J Rowling. I make no profit from this work, except for a certain inner satisfaction.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Last Recollections**

Before I was enrolled in Hogwarts, I kept a diary. There were several reasons why, and one was because my mother encouraged me to.

Earlier, when I was about seven years old, I read the biography of a girl killed during World War II. I can't remember the details, but almost the entire book was pieced together from the diary the girl had kept.

So I kept a diary, and in the back of my head, I had the idea that, if ever I died, the pieces of me that were really me would be preserved in ink and paper.

Then a classmate found my diary, and gossiped my inner thoughts to the rest of the school. In the aftermath, I lost several friends, and gained a couple of tormentors. I then decided that, even if I was happy with people reading about my life when I was dead, I'd rather they didn't while I was still alive. I didn't keep a diary afterwards.

I only found out recently, but many of the writings from aurors, researchers, and even dark lords were compiled from journals they left behind after their death. And wizards are rather better at these things than muggles, so they had a charm that prevents their thoughts from being read while they were still alive.

I've spent much of my recent free time investigating this charm. I wouldn't want an enemy to overpower it, and extract my thoughts and plans. But, as far as I can tell, the charm is impregnable. An enemy can only bypass the charm by looking into my head, and that was already possible.

So, if you're reading this, it means that I'm dead. I doubt it will take long, we've almost lost the war at this point. We still have plans—we always have plans—but I don't expect much to come from them.

I've got a contact in India, out of reach of the current conflict. When I die, the spell will send him these documents. When it's safe, when there's no harm that can be done by revealing any secrets, he'll publish them.

I'm sorry we couldn't do more to win this war. Barring extraordinary intervention, You-Know-Who will have total control over Britain and Central Europe within the year. I don't think he'll expand any further, at least not until he regroups and rearms. Maybe, in that time, somebody can use these writings to prepare.

I'll start at the very beginning, back when I was invited to Hogwarts. I've got several recollection spells, so, barring memory charms or obliviation, every word I record should be accurate.

* * *

**An Oddly Dressed Visitor at the Front Door**

I was never good with people, but I was still at that age where children love to open doors. It was a fair July day, and when the doorbell rang, I dashed to answer it.

I opened the wooden front door, but was certain to leave the security door locked. My mother had been very strict about that.

"Hello, may I help you?" I asked, plastering a large smile on my face.

Then I frowned, because the person in front of me didn't fit the script.

It was an older woman, with grey hair. She bore herself in a regal manner, and radiated authority, even despite her dark maroon robes and conical hat. In her right hand she held a green envelope, and her left hand clasped a wooden stick.

"Excuse me, Miss," She said, in a deep Scottish accent, "Is this the Granger residence?"

My parents had embedded me with deep Obedience and Responding to Authority tendencies, so I instantly nodded. I didn't speak, though, because the part of my brain that was supposed to be handling that was instead having a debate with my visual cortex over why somebody would look so odd, I mean, those are ghastly lion earrings, and are you certain you're not just imagining things?

"I am Minerva McGonagall, and I have a letter for Miss Hermione Granger," The tall lady said, "Is that you?"

I nodded again. My Broca's area was still AWOL.

"Before I give you the letter, I must speak to your parents. May I come inside?"

"Uh," I said, "I'm not sure."

Laurel Anne Granger, upon realizing her daughter had developed a fondness for opening doors—if only she was willing to talk to strangers in other conditions—had given her a script to follow.

If the visitor was a close relative or family friend (defined by the list written on the refrigerator door) I would use the house intercom—yelling—to tell my parents who it was, then let the visitor inside.

If it was somebody I knew, who was not on the whitelist, or if it was a stranger, I would tell my parents, then promise the visitor that Mum or Dad was coming.

If it was a salesperson, I was to apologise, and say that we wouldn't buy anything. If they were insistent, I was to promise that Mum or Dad was coming. If Dad came, he would sometimes slam the door in their face, which was always entertaining.

This person fell within the second category, except that my younger self's Obey Authority circuits were making me want to let the woman inside regardless.

"Dear, who is it?"

My father saved me from a crushing moral dilemma, by appearing in the hallway behind me. I stepped aside, and let Dad deal with the situation.

"I am Minerva McGonagall," She said. She had enough experience to know that she shouldn't add the 'Deputy Headmistress of a Magic School' part until she was inside. "I have an offer to present to Miss Hermione Granger, in the presence of her parents. Are you Andrew Granger?"

"I am," Hermione's father nodded, "Come inside. Hermione, dear, will you get your mother?"

Two minutes later, we sat within the living room, arrayed on lounge chairs that surrounded a low coffee table. The coffee table was cluttered with junk, including used glasses and a plate, and an old colouring book. I was using the margins to write study notes, since I had lost my last notebook.

The walls were covered with paintings, and a couple of bookshelves. I had gone through most of the children's books when I first learned to read, and I was now halfway through my parents' books.

"I am Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," She explained, once we were settled.

"I don't understand." Dad said.

Mum raised her eyebrows. "Is this a prank?"

"Not at all," McGonagall said, "Although I understand if you are skeptical. With your permission, I'll provide a demonstration."

My parents glanced at each other. "What kind of demonstration?" Mum asked.

Years later, I would ask the Headmistress of Hogwarts about her demonstrations. In her time as Hogwarts muggleborn ambassador, she had shown magic to many people, and received a plethora of different responses. She wanted a child's first memory of magic to be unforgettable, wondrous. She told me some of the different charms she had experimented with.

Creation of fire, for obvious reasons, was not a good idea. But when Minerva was younger, and a tiny bit mischievous, she had tried it a couple of times. When I knew her, she was never anything but dignified. I still can't imagine the picture.

She had tried hovering things, except that muggles have a long history of crooks and scammers, who use thin wires to hold up objects. Many, even after waving their hands above and below the levitated object, would refused to believe that she had actually performed any magic.

Conjuring animals was usually a great idea, except that some children were allergic. One child had dashed from the room, more terrified of a pigeon that most of us are of dark wizards. After that, Minerva decided to find a new strategy.

She gave a small smile. "Oh, it's far easier to show you. I promise there shall be no lasting harm."

Mum and Dad shared another look, then said, "Ok."

Minerva shifted her wooden stick into her right hand, and reached forward. Upon the coffee table was an empty glass. With a slight movement, she tapped the rim.

I watched with wide eyes.

The glass liquefied, and crumbled in on itself. It formed a puddle of molten glass, spreading over the surface of the table. After several seconds, it began to pull inwards, and a new form started to rise from the centre. It was a human shape, gender nonspecific. It raised a hand, fingers still forming, and waved to me. I hesitated before I waved back

The figure reached down and, with his hand, drew characters upon the table.

'Hello, Hermione.' As the figure wrote, it grew smaller, its body expended to form letters. Now pygmy-sized, the glass creature spelt out, 'Would you like to learn magic?'

* * *

**A Series of Missing Explanations**

In my younger years, my parents were worried about my social life. For a time, I had a best friend, but then the family followed a business opportunity out of town. After that, I retreated into books and learning, and never really came back out. Children at school would refer to me as 'the geek' or 'smarty-pants.' In sour-grapes, I decided, not that those particular kids weren't worth my time, but that children in general weren't worth the effort to befriend.

After all, Nathaniel Hawthorne was a billion times smarter than any of them. I never understood a thing he was saying, not until years later, but his word-scenery was fantastic.

My cousin, Elizabeth Granger, was born roughly six months after me. Since I had no friends at school, my parents would often arrange for me to visit her house, or for her to visit ours. Our parents wanted us to befriend each other, but instead, we detested one another.

Once, after a particularly tedious day, Elizabeth's parents arrived to pick her up, only to discover that her hair was orange. I had been fed up with my cousin, and in a fit of anger, I wished on her appearance the most garish colour I could imagine.

Mum and Dad didn't know what had happened. They got my side of the story, but that didn't seem to mesh with the way reality was supposed to function. Elizabeth's parents tried to wash the colour out of her hair, with no success. The story became a family legend, and the inexplicability only made it more popular.

After that, our parents stopped trying to push us together. Also, my parents' eyes were opened to the strange things that sometimes happened around me.

Once, we went bowling, and I got a strike first roll. And the roll after that. And the roll after that. At first, it was beginner's luck, but after some time, it was plain suspicious.

Another time, my father watched with horror as I fell from my bicycle onto an asphalt road. Despite sliding across the ground, I had neither wounds nor torn clothes.

At the same time, I really started to leap ahead in my school work. Teachers began to send home commendations, and my parents were soon regaled with stories of tests I had passed without doing any work. "She said she did it in her head." My math teacher remarked. Thankfully, he took that as a sign of childhood brilliance, not laziness.

I can't help wonder if my parents mixed the two sets of unusual stories. Perhaps Mum and Dad wondered if the unusual things that happened around me was tied into my burgeoning intelligence. But whatever their suspicions, they never acted odd around me, and they never had anything other than congratulations for when I did well at school. After hearing about Harry's step-parents, I am eternally grateful.

I should probably say that I did get over my attitude towards other children. In my last school year before Hogwarts, I had a new English teacher. She knew the subject well, which I was glad for. I had already begun to receive teachers who knew less than me. Computer class being a specific example.

My English teacher's name was Amanda Cohen. Mrs. Cohen had an eye on the social groups and cliques that had formed. Barely two weeks passed before she came to me, and asked if I wanted to talk about my friendlessness.

Perhaps, if I was any other child, I would say 'no,' and that would have been the end of it. But Mrs. Cohen wasn't a child, and she wasn't my parents. Also, she was a teacher, and I had been trained to respond to authority. I told my story to Mrs. Cohen, and she promised to help.

I wasn't the only girl in class who kept quiet and alone. This was especially true now, as we had several new additions, and the new classmates hadn't yet fit themselves into any social group. Mrs. Cohen introduced me to several other children, and I made friends with about half of them.

Amanda Cohen might have become my One Good Teacher, if it wasn't for Professor Vector teaching Arithmancy. I only had Mrs. Cohen for a single year, but it was a good year, and it taught me things I'm glad I knew in Hogwarts.

* * *

**A Shift in Perceived Reality, and an Inevitable Response**

The room was silent. Dad gasped when the glass began to move, but otherwise, we remained quiet, entranced by the demonstration.

I stared at the words. 'Would you like to learn magic?' The question mark at the end seemed particularly interesting, and I found my eyes tracing it repeatedly.

"Wow," Mum said, "That has to be impossible."

Dad was still staring.

Hermione-four-minutes-previous had a view of the world that made sense. The world was explained by electricity and thermodynamics and gravity and other things with more complicated names. I hadn't yet studied the deep mathematics of it all, but I understood a fair amount on an intuitive level, and had performed more than the average number of childhood scientific experiments.

My young brain, which understood science, but perhaps not quite as much as I should, also had learned that anything which went under the name 'magic' wasn't allowed. Magic was a synonym for fiction.

If Minerva McGonagall had said she was an alien from another planet, who had used ultra-advanced technology to jump the gap between planets, and give me the opportunity to study nanotechnology, my brain wouldn't be screaming at me. But instead…

'Would you like to learn magic?'

"Yes," I said.

It didn't make any sense, but what else could I say?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and am writing these stories for my own amusement, and the possible entertainment of others. I am making no money from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**The Caution of Parenthood**

My parents were less easy to convince.

"Where is this school?" My Mum demanded.

"What will she be learning, exactly?" My Dad said.

Before McGonagall could answer, both parents started with new queries.

"What will the tuition cost?" "What level of teaching quality can we expect from your school?" "What's with the name, anyway?" "Are there any reputable sources that accredit magic schools?" "Why has Hermione been selected, specifically?" "This isn't a prank, is it? I mean, really, magic?"

McGonagall took a breath. "Stop," She said.

Both my parents stopped.

"To answer your last question: Yes, really, magic. I understand the word has many connotations, not all of them positive. For the sake of this conversation, please forget any preconceived ideas. Magic does not consist of cackling wizards with green skin. Nor does it imply dealings with the devil, or a connection with evil."

"Although, apparently," My Dad said, "It does involve pointed hats."

"Yes, quite," McGonagall said, with the barest hint of a smile touching the corners of her mouth.

"As I was saying," McGonagall continued, "You should dispense with any illusions about magic. For our purposes, 'magic' is the latent ability of some people, including your daughter, to perform inexplicable feats. There are not a large number of witches and wizards, relatively to Earth's total population. We prefer to keep ourselves hidden, to prevent unnecessary strife with the outside world."

"This is still unbelievable," Mum muttered. Dad nodded along.

It was funny. My parents didn't like to agree. Agreement led to a squandering of good argument material. Often, one of them would temporarily change their opinion, for the sole purpose of creating a conflict. And if that wasn't enough, they would pick a controversial topic, and let a coin-flip determine who would be arguing for pro, and who would be arguing for con.

This time, they were in perfect agreement.

My parents fit together perfectly, and yet, in some ways, they were almost opposites. I always thought of it this way: My mother preferred arguing for con, my father preferred arguing pro.

My mother was the skeptical one. She'd always had a distrust of authority, and doubly so if that authority claimed to have access to supernatural deities, knowledge of the future, or magic. Dad claimed that the distrust of authority came from her childhood, which was less than stellar. It had burnt a mark, soul-deep, leaving Mum cautious and skeptical.

Mum said that there were plenty of other valid hypotheses that explained her current personality, and Dad should stop jumping to conclusions. She was not saying that just because she wished to diminish the role her parents had played in her life. Even so, she should declare her biases, and yes, she did wish to diminish the role her parents had played in her life.

And, besides, that was all irrelevant anyway. You cannot rebut an argument by claiming it is based upon impure motives, Mum said. You cannot discredit a person's arguments by claiming they had a bad childhood. So, Dad should just stop with the Bulverism, and get back to the real issues.

Dad was the … well, creative parent. Occam's Razor might be practical, but it wasn't fun. Also, he was quick to point out, it was rare that a phenomenon needed a single explanation, without opposition. Shouldn't we be willing to consider all the alternatives, even as we hold only one to be the most probable?

Occam's Razor should be used as a heuristic, but not as a silencer. Theories that fit the facts should be considered, even if they rely upon the existence of numerous supernatural entities that stagger all sanity. Especially if they rely upon the existence of numerous supernatural entities that stagger all sanity.

Dad was right about one thing: magic was real. This might have been a victory, if he was not equally surprised to see McGonagall's magical exhibition.

"To answer the rest of your questions," McGonagall said, "I have the official Hogwarts invitation letter."

She handed me the green envelope. I cradled it carefully.

"Included is a magically enchanted answer sheet. This will answer any questions you may have, by referring to a list of past questions. If you manage to find a new question, one of our teachers will be notified, and will respond personally."

"How do we use it?" Mum asked.

"Just ask it a question."

* * *

**Just Asking a Question**

Half-an-hour later, McGonagall had left, stating that she still had other students to visit.

I tore open the envelope, and began to look through the invitation. I gazed at the list of required supplies, wondering where I would find dragon-hide protective gloves.

Dad grabbed for the answer sheet.

"What colour is the sky?"

'This answer sheet is capable of detecting jesting or irrelevant questions. Please ask a question about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

"How many witches does it take to change a lightbulb?"

'This answer sheet does not have any obligation to answer such nonsensical questions.'

"What is the ultimate meaning of life?"

'No, seriously, stop that.'

* * *

**Entering a Tangential Society**

McGonagall met us a week later, in a tiny street in London.

Diagon Alley is where the culture shock starts to seep in. Every muggleborn I've ever talked to, at least of those in Britain, identified their pre-school Diagon Alley trip as the place they first internalized that magic was real.

I'm no exception.

McGonagall tapped the brick wall with her wand, and it started to fold back in on itself. Like a curtain being pulled back, to reveal a theatrical play of particular whimsy. Or a hand slowly opening a fantasy book, to reveal an illustration on the title page.

We stepped through that portal, into a world of oddness and surreality.

"Wow," I said.

Vendors were parked up and down the alley, selling magical candy and 24-hour pets. Banners advertised the wares of several shops, while also proclaiming the relative inadequacy of their competitors. The people were all dressed in robes of various colours, but the salespeople wore clothing that was much more flamboyant.

The alley was crooked, and the shops were at strange angles to each other, like a canyon formed between piles of poorly-stacked books. Even so, I could see that a single designer must have laid out the shops, because there was a pattern there, although not a pattern created by any sane-minded person.

I read the signs for every store we passed, which included some with names like 'Low-Price Lunacies' and 'Gilbert's Untested Enchantments.' We walked by a magical cinema called 'The Rune of Recording,' recently opened by a muggle entrepreneur, and advertising several Hollywood fantasy films. Each of the films appeared to be suitably modified for wizarding tastes. We also saw some broom stores, which I found particularly unusual. I hadn't been told that these household cleaning objects had been converted into faster-than-safety airborne vehicles.

We encountered several bookstores, and each time I was granted a couple minutes to browse the shelves. I memorised all the interesting names, and made a mental note to check the school library for those titles. Eventually, they dragged me away from my incomplete literature survey, and we made our way to Gringotts bank.

That day, I think, was one of the best in my life. I had become aware of magic, but hadn't yet been introduced to wizarding prejudice. I was shown the flamboyant, primary colours that many wizards and witches wore, but not the nightmare black robes and silver skull masks of the Death Eaters. I got a tour of Diagon Alley, but didn't yet know about Knockturn Alley.

Even the people I met were wondrous. First was Tiberius Ogden, a member of the Wizengamot. He wore striped purple robes, and bore tall, cylindrical headwear bearing a coat of arms. After a flurry of conversation with Professor McGonagall—regarding Dumbledore's schedule and the number of new muggleborn students—he turned our way, and bid a brief welcome, before striding away.

Next was Florean Fortescue. After gaining permission from my parents, McGonagall led us into his ice-cream parlour. Florean, she told us, was a rich man, capable of living from inheritance and wealth he had accumulated as a magical researcher. Instead, he preferred to trade in ice-cream.

He was a friendly man, wearing an indissoluble smile. Upon seeing McGonagall, he brought us all free ice-cream. "I cannot let you pay for your first," He said.

I felt a particular affection for May Wilson, a salesperson at Flourish and Blotts. She distracted McGonagall, while I skimmed through the first page of half the books on the shelves. At least, those shelves that I could reach.

But, perhaps the most unusual person in Diagon Alley was the wandmaker, Ollivander.

* * *

**Purveyor of Fine Wands and Curious Stares**

The sign said 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.'

Just how, exactly, does one maintain a successful store for two point four millennia?

Was the store always called Ollivander's? It was difficult enough to run a business, but how would they prevent their children from deciding that they would rather be dragon-tamers? Or did they change the name of the business, as the business changed hands?

What's more, London was founded by the Romans in 43 A.D. Whatever store was founded in 382 B.C. wasn't born here. Where did the store originate? Perhaps the store had graced the magical communities of a dozen countries, before being relocated here.

For all my curiosity, I admit that these are questions that I never got around to answering.

"There are other wand shops," McGonagall explained, as I pushed open the shop door, "But I wouldn't wish any of those wands upon the worst dark wizard."

The store didn't look like much. It was dark, cramped, and dusty. Dozens of small boxes, presumably holding wands, were stacked in perfect columns that nearly reached the ceiling. The room held a single, spindly chair, but none of us sat upon it. It looked like it could barely hold the weight of a housefly.

A bell rang, somewhere in the deep recesses of the wand shop, but I was too engrossed to pay any attention. I was holding my hand in front of me, staring at the small hairs on my arm. I could feel them prickling, reacting to the presence of some powerful magic embossed onto the space this shop occupied.

"Good Afternoon."

The voice was quiet, but the room was silent. I started, then spun around.

Ollivander reminded me of Albert Einstein, without the moustache. He had the same delightfully frizzy hair, and some subtle expression that gave off the same vibes of genius and eccentricity.

But his eyes appeared the most unusual. They were pale, but they lit up the darkened shop. His gaze communicated intensity, and obsession.

"Pleasure to meet another young child. Starting Hogwarts, yes?"

Ollivander's wan eyes turned away, and settled on McGonagall. "Of course you are," He said, "You're with Minerva. Let me remember. Fir wand, with a dragon heartstring core. Stiff, and one of the better wands for transfiguration. Nine and one half inches."

"Yes," McGonagall said, smiling, "As you've told the last four students I brought here this week."

"Delightful group of children," Ollivander said, "Three with unicorn hairs, one with dragon's heartstring. I anticipate seeing what they shall do with those wands."

"Ideally," McGonagall muttered, "Something more productive than pranking each other."

"But, to the business at hand," Ollivander said, "Young lady, which is your wand hand?"

"Right hand," I said, after a moment's pause.

A hovering tape appeared, measuring the distance between my shoulder and my elbow, then my elbow and my wrist. With that done, the tape proceeded to measure each finger on both hands, my shoulder width, the diameter of my head, and the length of several individual hairs.

"Enough," Ollivander said. The tape measure fell to the floor, lifeless.

"Try this," He said, pulling a box, and opening its lid, "Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Quite flexible."

I took the wand, and gave it a wave. Nothing happened, except that Ollivander pulled it from my grasp.

"No, try this instead. Hawthorn and dragon's heartstring. Twelve inches. Pliant"

I flicked the wand, and Ollivander pulled it back from my hand.

He handed me another wand. "Mahogany and phoenix feather. Nine-and—"

I gave the wand a wave, and again, Ollivander grabbed it, this time before I could finish the motion.

"Not mahogany," Ollivander said, "Perhaps vine. Yes, try this."

He handed me a new wand. It was long and thin, but it narrowed towards one end. The wand had no handle, but vines were carved into its sides, which provided some friction with the hand. "Fifteen inches, with a dragon's heartstring," Ollivander said, "Flexible."

When I picked up the wand, I could feel … something. Then, I gave it a quick swish.

Sparks shot from the wand's end, bathing the shop in a red glow. Instinctively, I jerked my hand away, and the wand cluttered to the floor, falling besides Ollivander's tape measure.

"Wands aren't fragile," McGonagall said, "But please, do be careful."

I stared at the small stick, resting on the floor. It seemed so innocent, but when it activated, it became alive. My fingers were tingling, just a tiny bit.

Had I …

Had I just performed magic?

"Well," Ollivander said, "What are you waiting for? Pick up your wand."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. This story will not make me a cent richer.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**A Conversation in the Lounge Room**

We have a television in the lounge room. Sometimes, as a family, we would watch a film. Occasionally, Dad would see a football game. But the television was off, and we were there for a Serious Conversation.

Mum sat on a single lounge chair. It had a small lever at the side, which allowed the chair to lean back until it was nearly horizontal. When I was an eight- or nine-years old, I was fascinated with that chair.

Dad sat on the other, far more boring, chair. It didn't lean back, although Dad always said it was more comfortable. But what did a child care about comfort, when the alternative was fun?

I sat in the middle of the double lounge chair. My wand was on my lap, inside its box.

"Hermione," My Dad began, "I know you're excited, but you can't go destroying your clothes."

The shirt I was wearing had a cut along the side. Not large, but still noticeable.

I was reminded of the time I had first discovered a magnifying glass, years before. Some kids liked to torture ants, but I was too kind for that. Plants, however, had no brain, and therefore no consciousness, and they wouldn't feel the torture.

My parents, it turns out, didn't like having burn marks on their geraniums.

I was a near perfect kid: I got good grades at school, I wasn't cruel to other children, and I strove to always obey the rules. But there are a lot of rules that nobody feels the need to write down, because they should just be immediately obvious. Except that I don't seem to have access to the akashic record which stores 'immediately obvious' information.

"I'm sorry," I said, sincerely, "I was reading The Standard Book of Spells, and I learned about the Cutting Charm. I just had to try it."

"Aren't there less destructive charms that you can—" Dad started saying.

"Wait a moment," Mum interrupted, "You tested something called the 'Cutting Charm' on clothes that you were wearing, on your own body?"

I opened my mouth to reply. I was then struck by what she was saying. I left my mouth open while I realized what an idiot I was.

"Didn't it occur to you how dangerous that was?" My Mum shrieked, just as it was occurring to me how dangerous that was.

"I … I'm sorry," I said again, "I wasn't thinking."

"Hermione," My Dad said, "We need to talk to you about this magic."

A deep, impenetrable dread gripped me. "You're not saying that I can't go to Hogwarts?"

"No," Dad said, "This is, doubtless, an incredible opportunity. We want you to get the education to develop your abilities, and if your abilities include magic, well …"

"But," Mum interjected, "You simply can't afford to 'not think.' Now matter how excited you are, or how curious you are about magic, you need to stay aware. From what we've seen, magic is powerful, and that makes it very, very dangerous."

"If you don't may attention," Dad said, "You will hurt yourself, or others."

"Exactly," Mum said, "I know you've always been good at following rules, but that's especially important now. If the teachers tell you to do anything, make sure you listen to them.

"And, we've talked to you about peer pressure before. If any other children tell you to do something dangerous, don't do it. You're a smart girl, you know not to follow the crowd."

I sometimes wonder if introverts are better at combating peer pressure. It's easy not to follow the crowd if you don't actually like the crowd. It's just a thought; I haven't actually done the experiment.

But, it is true, I was never one who would bow to peer pressure. Even more, I was never really tempted. What was so compelling about those other students, that so many would follow them?"

It reminded me of the game Simon Says. What, actual, justification existed for following Simon?

But, as this incident showed, I was perfectly capable of doing stupid things on my own.

"I promise not to follow the crowd," I said, "And I'll obey the teachers. And I'll think about the consequences of every spell, before I cast it."

"Thank you, Hermione," My Dad said, "You're a good girl."

Mum nodded. "And, don't worry about the shirt. Nobody was hurt. Just, please, be careful."

* * *

**Reactive Caution**

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 was still sitting open on my bed. I, of course, quickly got back to reading. Soon, I found the 'mending charm.'

I read the entire section of the book, looking for worrisome side-effects or the dangers of a miscast spell. When I found none, I sat still for a good ten minutes, ruminating on any-unforeseen problems which this particular spell might pose. When I couldn't conceive of a problem, I took the spell-book downstairs, and showed my parents.

"You mean there's a repairing spell?" Dad asked, "Does it work on people."

"Um, no," I said, flipping the page, "The book says, 'It is ill-advised to use the mending charm to heal injuries. This charm does not have the intricacies required to handle the complexity of the human body. If you require restoration, please use a healing spell, or contact an able mediwizard.'"

"But, there are still healing charms," Dad said, "I'm not sure how I should feel about that. These magicians have the ability to just heal wounds, and yet, they don't. How many people could they have saved, if they had bothered to visit a hospital and cast a charm."

"To be fair," Mum said, "It's not like normal people, uhh, muggles, are any different. We also have the ability to save people's lives, and most of the time, we don't. I mean, they've set up charities, and made helping people _really easy_, and yet, the majority of people won't give a cent."

I was too young to handle moral philosophy, so I stayed silent.

"Yes," Dad said, "But there's still enough donors to make a sizeable, visible impact. We don't see magicians doing anything."

"What if they are?" Mum countered, "We've been told about the statute of secrecy. Perhaps they are helping, but only in ways that will not reveal their presence. For all we know, magicians are within all the world's major hospitals, casting surreptitious charms."

"Or, perhaps," Mum added, after a moment's thought, "Perhaps their healing spells aren't actually very good. Our technology could be just as effective as their spells."

"Umm," I said, "So, can I try this spell?"

"I can't see the harm," Mum said, "But, change into something else first. Don't cast any spells on clothing that you're wearing."

"Of course," I said, as if that were immediately obvious.

* * *

**Casting Charms on T-Shirts**

I changed clothes, and got a good look at the slit in my shirt. It wasn't large, only several centimetres long. It was located on the right side, near the hem, where it had been easy to hold with my left hand as I cut.

I lay it flat on my desk. Being ultra-vigilant, I placed it atop a sheet of cardboard, so that the spell would be less likely to harm the desk.

I sat upon the edge of my desk, and drew my wand. The Standard Book of Spells sat beside me, open to the page showing a diagram of the wand movement.

My eyes oscillated between the book and my shirt, and I began to make the wand movement. It was an uppercase G shape, but more angular, and flipped horizontally.

"Reparo," I said, in a commanding, spell-worthy voice.

Nothing happened, but I expected that. It had taken half-a-hundred tries before I could cast the wand-lighting charm, and that was a much simpler spell.

"Reparo," I said again, repeating the gesture.

I kept casting, my attention addressed only to this spell. Every time I cast, I could feel energy flow through my wand, but it was dispersing harmlessly, without effecting the world. Every time I cast, that energy loss made me feel a touch more tired.

I was interrupted by my parents, calling me for dinner. I ate quickly, yawning when I wasn't chewing. I had cast a lot of magic today, and it was exhausting me.

I helped to clear the table, and stack everything in the dishwashing machine. Then, I dashed upstairs, grabbed my wand, and began anew.

I kept casting, and I got more and more tired. Eventually, I dropped my wand, and kept my eyes open long enough to fall onto my bed. My shirt lay on my desk, still unmended.

* * *

**Achievement Borne of Ignorance**

Two days later, I finally succeeded in mending my shirt. I carried it proudly to my parents, who both applauded me, while being secretly grateful that they would never again need to buy replacements for torn clothing.

I didn't realize at the time, but the mending charm was considered one of the more advanced first-year spells. It's not taught until late in the school year, and certainly not before teaching the unlocking charm. The unlocking charm was another simple-seeming spell that performed a complex and delicate operation, and it was considered the educational precursor to the mending charm.

But the textbook didn't mention this, and I hadn't considered the fact that the spells weren't ordered alphabetically, but by complexity, and the mending charm was near the back.

And so it was, that when I rode the Hogwarts Express, I already knew Reparo.

* * *

**King's Cross Station**

I spent the next several weeks turning pages. I was determined to read through all of the required books before I got to school.

In the end, I failed. Magical Drafts and Potions was a book that was far too practical for me to learn without a cauldron and ingredients. Magical Theory, despite being one of the far more important books, was also one that required a foundation of knowledge that I didn't yet have. And A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration opened with pages upon pages of warnings, complemented by gruesome moving pictures. Transfiguration is not a course you should learn without supervision.

But I had practically memorised my other books, including A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot. Since that book only covered the years before the 20th century, I had also bought Modern Magical History, to cover the gap.

(I had also requested The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. My parents didn't want to buy too many books. "Don't fret," McGonagall had said, "The books will be available from the Hogwarts library. And a Ravenclaw won't borrow them, because they have their own private collection.")

As I strode through the bustling terminal, with my parents behind me, I knew everything that had been written in the textbooks. I could have recited the year the Hogwarts Express was created. I could have trailed the railroad tracks on a map, and list the charms that prevented a Muggle from seeing or interfering. And I knew exactly where to find the secret entrance to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

"It's a wall," Mum said.

"It's a secret entrance," I countered. "I'm supposed to run through it, without believing I might crash."

"Are you sure this isn't some idiot test?" Mum asked, "See if the gullible child would be willing to run into an obviously solid surface?"

"Come on," I said, "You saw the entrance to Diagon Alley. We walked through that."

"At least that brick wall had the decency to get out of the way, before expecting people to go through," Dad said.

Just to test, I reached out my hand, and set it on the wall. It was solid.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I said, less certain than before.

"Just, don't run too fast," Mum suggested, "It would be terrible if I had to replace one of your teeth."

I turned to Mum, to see her wearing an affectionate smile.

"I guess this is where we say goodbye," She said. "I'll miss you."

"I love you, Mum," I said. I stepped forward, and hugged her.

"I love you too, Hermione."

Mum's voice was quiet, and wistful. She hadn't expected to send a child away to a boarding school.

I embraced Dad next. "Love you, Dad."

"You too," He replied.

I stood there for a moment, staring at my amazing parents. They were both wearing smiles. Their eyes looked a touch wet, but it was hard to tell, because my eyes were a touch wet, and I couldn't see clearly.

I gave a final wave. Then, with a suitcase in hand, I started running at the brown brick wall. A portal to Platform 9¾, to Hogwarts, and to a new life.

* * *

**Saccade between Realities**

A foot before the wall, my courage faltered. I slowed, and instinctively threw my hands in front, to stop my collision.

I passed through, my suitcase clattering behind me.

In that blink, the world had inversed itself. Before, in the muggle King's Cross, the people were wearing suits, or dresses, or T-shirts, but here they were wearing the outrageous wizarding attire. The people in King's Cross Primary were bustling in and out, businesslike. These people were laughing and joking, many of them meeting with school friends from the previous year.

King's Cross had multiple rounded, electric trains. This place sported a single train, with a chimney that was spilling white smoke onto the platform.

It was all very odd.

"I see you found your own way in."

I spun around, to find myself looking at a another young girl. She had dark skin, and darker hair, which was pulled up into a braid. Her eyes were curious, inquisitive, and blue. They were covered with thin, wireframe glasses.

"Most mu—, er, muggleborns meet up with a teacher outside," She explained, "You found the entrance by yourself. My name is Isobel, by the way."

She held out her hand, and I shook it. "I'm Hermione."

Curious, I asked, "Did you grow up in the wizarding world?"

"I'm from the MacDougal family." She said, "Pureblood for fifteen generations. Umm, not that it matters."

She looked apprehensive, as though she was worried I would call her out on something.

"Cool," I said, "What's that like?"

She cocked her head, and paused. "Grand," She said, " We've got all these uncles and aunts who can do magic, and they show us things. We're not supposed to do magic until we go to school, but Uncle Rodric bought me a wand when I was nine, and he's been teaching me ever since."

I shuffled uncomfortably at the mention of somebody breaking the rules.

"It gives us an opportunity to learn about magic. It must be hard for you, only just finding out about us."

"It's weird," I said, "But I've been practising magic, and I've already learned some spells."

Isobel was giving me an unusual stare.

"What?" I asked.

"Show me," She said.

"Okay," I said. I pulled my wand from my pocket, and cast the Fire-Making Charm, being extra careful to use the non-dangerous variety. A tongue of flame appeared, twisted in mid-air, before disappearing.

Isobel was staring, her mouth ajar.

"Are you really a muggleborn?"

"What?" I asked, "Of course I'm a muggleborn."

"It's just that you knew your way onto the platform, which is unusual for a muggleborn. And you can already do magic."

"So?" I asked, defensively.

"Well, they don't bother telling muggleborns not to do magic outside school, because they're not supposed to be able to learn fast enough to create anything except sparks."

"It's not that hard," I protested.

She raised an eyebrow. Then, she turned, and yelled, "Morag!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, I saw another girl running over.

Morag MacDougal was taller and fuller than Isobel. Her hair was the same tone as her sister's, but she hadn't put it into a braid. Unlike Isobel, Morag's skin was a shade lighter, and she did not wear glasses.

In her right hand, she held a copy of a newspaper called the Daily Prophet. I got a brief glimpse of a moving image.

"What is it?" Morag asked.

"Hermione, this is my sister, Morag MacDougal. I'm sorry, I didn't remember your last name."

"Granger." I said.

"Morag, meet Hermione Granger." Isobel said, "Hermione is, so she says, a muggleborn. But she can do magic already. Hermione, show her what you showed me."

I created another wisp of flame, and held it in mid-air for several seconds.

"It's not unheard of," Morag commented, bored, "Margeret Tromp knew several spells before she got to Hogwarts. So did Richard Balfin, if you go further back. They also say that Harry Potter's mother knew several wandless spells before she received her letter, but that's probably legend. Speaking of our celebrity, have you seen Harry Potter yet?"

"No," Isobel said, "I've checked every person who has come through here, and I haven't seen a lightning-shaped scar. Could the scar have healed? Maybe it's a red herring, so that Harry can enter school without anybody noticing."

"If that's the case, they'd probably enter him a year early, or late," Morag said, "To throw off the investigative reporters. Oh well, if we're going to know anything, we'll know at the Sorting Ceremony."

Morag nodded at me, "Pleasure to meet you, Hermione Granger." She turned, and strode away.

From the new angle, I got a clear look at the Daily Prophet she was holding at her side. The headline, written in bold, black letters, caught my eye.

GIVER OF IMMORTALITY KILLED

Underneath, in slightly-less-bold, black letters, was the subtitle.

FLAMELS TORTURED TO DEATH IN HOME


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Harry Potter universe. Neither do I own a billion dollars to buy the Harry Potter universe. I make no money from this.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Flamels Tortured to Death In Home**

"Who are the Flamels?" I asked Isobel.

"I don't know." She shrugged.

I decided to add the name to my 'list of things to research when possible.' For now, I forgot about the newspaper headline.

* * *

**My First Magical Friend**

Isobel and I deposited our trunks on the Hogwarts Express train, in a compartment approximately two-thirds of the way down. Morag was with her own friends, further up the train.

I took the opportunity to change into our school robes. They were unusual, but I was excited to wear them. They were a tangible reminder of how close I was to entering an actual school of magic.

"Don't you have friends to sit with?" I asked Isobel.

"I'm not really like Morag," She said, "Even though we're twins. I'm not as friendly. And the people I know, they wouldn't really like you."

"Why not?" I asked.

"They just wouldn't," Isobel said.

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Isobel was obviously discomfited, but I wasn't sure why. None of my books had even mentioned pureblood prejudice, and I didn't yet know it existed.

"So, what's Hogwarts like?" I asked.

"It's not like I've been there myself," Isobel said.

"Yeah, but you know lots of people who have. Don't they tell you about Hogwarts?"

"They tell me all about Hogwarts," She said, "They tell me about its death traps, and troll nests, and hoards of bloodthirsty vampires. They tell me that our teachers include dragons and werewolves and dementors. And they go into great detail about the torture they use as punishment."

I choked on my surprise. Isobel laughed.

"Don't look like that. They were obviously lying. Which means that, no, I can't tell you what Hogwarts is like."

"I see," I said, "You couldn't tell apart the truth from all of the lies."

"Sometimes I think the truths were also lies," Isobel said, "It's funny what you can make people believe, by telling them facts out of context."

We continued chatting for the next several hours. We barely noticed the students pushing past outside the doors, or the moment when the train began to move. Three other students took seats in our compartment, but they talked among themselves, or didn't talk at all.

I don't think I had ever become so talkative with another kid my age, in such a short period of time. Usually, I would remain silent, preferring paralysis to the awkwardness of conversation. The exceptions were when I wanted to show off.

But this time, I was curious. I wanted to know about Hogwarts, and witches, and wizards, and the magical government, and magicians in other countries. I wanted to learn about the previously mentioned dragons, vampires, werewolves, trolls, and dementors. And I absolutely needed to know everything I could about how to do magic. So, we had plenty to talk about, and before I realized it, I had become friends with Isobel MacDougal.

* * *

**Search for a Tailless Amphibian**

"Have you seen my toad?"

The voice cut across our earnest discussion about the relative merits and substantial demerits of various wizarding candies. To put this in context, the sweets cart had just gone by, and Isobel had sworn it was her life's duty to introduce me to Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

The other members of the compartment muttered various negatives. I asked, "What does it look like?"

Isobel leaned over, and whispered into my ear, "We haven't seen any toads, so what does it matter what it looked like?"

"It's, umm, brown," Offered the small, round-faced boy. "It has bumps on its back."

"I assumed that, considering it's a toad." I said, "Does it have any deformities?"

The kid's face scrunched up in anger, "Fine then," He said, "I'll go, if you're just going to insult Trevor."

"Wait!" I said, "I didn't mean it like that. But any unusual features would make the toad recognisable."

He didn't look convinced, but he answered anyway. "One eye is a tiny bit higher than the other. But only a tiny bit, it doesn't make him look ugly."

Personally, I was of the opinion that a frog didn't need to be asymmetric before it was ugly. But I didn't say this.

"I haven't seen your toad," I said, "But If you want, I'll help you find it."

"Hermione, no," Isobel said, quietly, "It's just a toad. And, besides, this is Neville Longbottom. If you find the toad, he'll lose it two minutes later."

"I won't be long," I promised.

Isobel sighed, and slumped in her seat. "Fine, go, but I'm staying here."

I followed Neville from the compartment. He was smiling.

"I'm Hermione," I said, "Isobel told me you were called Neville."

"Yes," He said. He didn't say anything else.

"Okay, how about this," I said, "I'll start at one end, and you start at the other. We'll ask each compartment if they've seen your frog. If we meet in the middle without finding it, I'll think of something else."

"Okay," Neville said, "Which end do I start?"

"The front of the train," I said, "I'll start at the back."

I started with the final carriage, and talked to each group of students. Some were helpful, others were annoyed. Most pointed out that Neville had already talked to them. Some groups, Neville had clearly avoided. Those groups tended to react more angrily to my request.

I remember one group, in particular. It was a group of three boys, who had taken a carriage to themselves. One was a thin, blonde boy, and he was accompanied by two boys with dark hair, cut short.

The two boys had a width-to-height ratio that would have been in the top percentile. They each had round, chubby faces. I don't say this to insult them: I never thought myself pretty, and so I've always had a compassion for others who don't have ideal bodies. I mention it because it was the only thing interesting about them. Their faces were blank, and their speech and actions seemed to lack any trace of personality.

The blonde boy was more interesting. He had a thin face, whose expression showed intelligence and perception, to the small degree that facial muscles are able to signal such things. Unfortunately, his facial muscles hadn't yet bothered to tell me how obnoxious, and how contemptible, Draco Malfoy really was.

"Excuse me," I asked, my tone the epitome of politeness, "Have you seen Neville's toad?"

The blonde boy turned towards me, and he sneered. "Oh, who's this?" He asked, "Neville's found a mudblood to search for his toad. Tell him that we squashed it."

Seven words. It took seven words from when he first met me, until Draco was insulting my heritage. It's not the worst: some people have introduced themselves with 'Avada Kedavra,' but it still reveals something about Draco's character.

I didn't know what 'mudblood' meant, but I had been bullied enough to recognize an insult when I heard it. I slammed the carriage door, and went on.

I checked several more carriages, none of which contained information on the toad's location, before stumbling into Harry Potter.

I didn't recognize him, of course. He was just an eleven-year old boy, and wasn't radiating an aura of Inexorable Power, or anything like that. He was sitting alone in the carriage with a second eleven-year old boy, who happened to have bright red hair.

As I opened the door, the red-haired boy was holding his wand, and waving it over a small, nightmarish creature. (Yes, mice are nightmarish. No, they are not cute.) His wand work was sloppy, and the incantation didn't sound like anything I had read about.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow," He said, with his wand hand convulsing, "Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" I asked, after the stupid, fat rat hadn't turned yellow, "I mean, there's too many words, it's all very inefficient. And what have daisies or butter or sunshine got to do with it, anyway? You should try something from The Standard Book of Spells, there's plenty available, and they're not very hard. I've already memorised each of the spells, and there's only four that I can't actually do yet. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

The two boys stared at each other, and then stared back at me. Their mouths weren't properly closed.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Said the red-haired boy.

"Harry Potter."

"Really?" I asked, "I read all about you in Modern Magical History. It was mostly conjecture and inconsistent theories, but I asked Isobel about them, and she helped me figure out what was real. I was going to borrow some books once we got to Hogwarts, to double-check everything, but I guess I could just ask you."

"Umm," Said Harry Potter, "I don't really know anything. I'm in a book?"

"Of course you are," I gushed, "You defeated Lord Voldemort—"

Ron Weasley winced. I wasn't sure why.

"—when you were just one year old," I said, "Historians aren't sure how you did it."

"Well, I don't know, either," Harry said.

I'd never met a celebrity before. But, for somebody so famous, Harry didn't seem all that spectacular.

"Anyway, have you seen a toad?" I asked, " A boy named Neville lost one."

"No," Harry said. Ron shook his head.

"Well, I better go and keep looking," I said, "You two had better change, you know, I'll expect we'll be there soon."

* * *

**Hogwarts or: That Crazy Place with a Giant Squid**

It was Neville who found the toad, in the end. A helpful sixth-grader had seen the toad, recognised it as somebody's pet, and trapped the animal until it was claimed.

Neville clutched his toad, and ran down the train corridor. He showed it to me, with a large grin on his face. "Thanks for helping," He said.

I headed back to our carriage. Isobel was still inside, looking bored.

"What happened?" She asked.

"We both asked asked around, until Neville found the toad," I explained.

"So, if Neville was the one who found it, why did he need you?" Isobel asked.

"It was a nice thing to do," I said. "And I couldn't have known that he wouldn't have needed my help."

"Hermione, there's a lot of people who need things," Isobel said, "My Mum told me that, if you spend all your time helping others, you'll never get anything of your own done."

"But that's mean," I said.

Isobel shook her head. "Mean is attacking people who didn't do anything to deserve it. That is different from refusing to let people walk all over you."

I didn't answer. It still seemed wrong, but I wasn't sure what to say.

Before long, the train started to slow. A voice echoed throughout the carriages, saying, "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

At the time, I wasn't paranoid. Now, I wonder if they searched that luggage, before transporting it into the students' rooms. From simple pranks or fireworks, to high level Dark objects, there were plenty of items that were banned at school. The Hogwarts staff probably had specialised charms for the purpose.

The train slowed further, and then stopped. Looking out the window, I could see trees and mountains, but couldn't make out details in the dim light.

The students piled their way off the train, onto a small, concrete platform.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! Firs' years!"

A man-like figure towered over the students. Apart from his sheer size, his most noticeable feature was his tousled beard. You also could not help but notice his ear-ringing voice.

"Firs' Years!" He boomed again, "Come with me."

He held a lantern, and held it up high as he started to walk away from the station. The new students followed, most shivering in the cold Scottish air, with their arms around their stomachs.

"Any more Firs' years?" Hagrid called, "Firs' years!"

He led us down a dark trail. His lantern swung side to side as he walked. It didn't provide enough light for the students, and several stumbled upon unseen rocks.

I walked with Isobel, neither of us talking. To my left, I caught a glimpse of Neville, still grasping his toad. I didn't see Harry or Ron anywhere, but I did spot Draco Malfoy—although I didn't yet know his name—striding out the front, flanked by his two ovoid companions.

And I saw plenty of other faces, people I didn't yet know, but who would soon become my house- or study-mates, friends, or even some enemies.

"Now, yer about to see Hogwarts fer the first time," Hagrid called, his voice like a gong struck millimetres from the eardrum. "Keep yer eyes open."

We turned the bend, and came upon the edge of a great lake. Wooden boats floated near the shore. But that was extraneous, because we were all staring at Hogwarts castle.

It was a cluster of towers and walls, arranged in an unordered way that made it appear natural—like stalactites formed at the floor of a cave—rather than designed and constructed. The castle interior had been lit with unseen lights, and we could see every window glowing.

Once we stopped gawking, Hagrid loaded us into the boats. Isobel and I sat with two others, a girl and a boy, who introduced themselves as Megan Jones and Kevin Entwhistle. Both were muggleborns, and their eyes radiated with the same wonder that I was experiencing.

At Hagrid's command, the boats started forward across the lake. The lake's surface was calm, perturbed only by the ripples in the vessels' wake.

Halfway across, one of the kids on the far side shrieked out. "I saw something moving in the water," He yelled.

"Oh, don' lose yer wits," Hagrid said, "It's jus' the gian' squid."

"What?" Kevin Entwhistle said. "A giant squid?"

"Funny," Isobel mused, "I was certain that particular tale was false."

The boats continued moving forward, silently, without the aid of oars nor propellers, nor, it would seem, any understanding of Newton's Third Law. But it was magic, and I had stopped trying to understand everything, at least until I had free access to the library.

"Isobel," I asked, after some time. "What does mudblood mean?"

"What?" She asked, "Who called you that?"

"When I was helping Neville, I talked to a boy with blonde hair. He was with two-"

"Draco Malfoy," Isobel interrupted, "Yeah, we all think he's a jerk, but his family is important, so we act like he's not. Just ignore him."

"I've already decided to," I said. I had been bullied before. Whenever I was, I would fantasize about our positions in ten or twenty years.

When school was finished, I would go into a successful career. I would do important things, perhaps become a scientist, and make some great discovery. Meanwhile, my bullies would waste away in obscurity.

Their attempts to intimidate me were like the final thrashings of a dying animal. They used what small power they had, while they still had it. But they were below me, and I would ignore them.

It was a cruel thing to think about somebody, but they were bullies, so I felt they deserved it.

"But still, what does it mean?" I asked again.

"It doesn't mean anything," Isobel said, shifting in her seat, "Just forget about it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Sorry, this chapter was originally supposed to go up last night, but I was having troubles with the website.

**Disclaimer: **The Harry Potter universe does not belong to me. This story is composed of J Rowling's ideas, twisted and complemented to fit my own purposes. I am making no wealth from this endeavour.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Ethereal Squatters**

The boats moved through a curtain of ivy, into a dimly-lit underground cavern. We jumped onto dry land.

"Follow me," Hagrid bellowed, beckoning with his lantern.

He led us up a small passageway. At times, it looked like Hagrid might not fit, but the first years were smaller, and we had no trouble.

We emerged near the castle, stepping out onto green grass. From here, we stared at amazement at the structure that towered over us. Hogwarts was incredible.

A thousand lights, from a thousand windows, shone down on us. Those rooms were obviously not being used, and I had years of power conservation drilled into my habits. I wanted to find the light switches, and turn them all off.

Hagrid's use of a lantern, rather than a torch, didn't seem too odd. The possibility that magicians use candles and fire, instead of light bulbs, hadn't occurred to me.

Hagrid continued forward, leading us up a short set of stairs, until we were at the front doors. He turned around, and looked at each of the students, counting to make sure that nobody had been left behind.

Apparently satisfied, Hagrid turned around, and use his gargantuan left hand to knock on the front door.

It opened, revealing Professor McGonagall. She wore red and yellow robes, and crooked hat. "Thank you, Hagrid." she said, "First year students, please follow me."

The Hogwarts entrance hall was vast. The walls and floor were made of stone, and ahead of us, we could see a marble staircase leading to higher levels. Flaming torches were hanging on the walls, but their light didn't reach the roof. It gave the impression of a gaping, bottomless pit. If gravity were to reverse, we would fall forever.

McGonagall took us into a small side room. The crowd of first year students barely fit—I wondered of this room had been built for another purpose, or perhaps, constructed when Hogwarts had fewer students, and this room would have been large enough for its purpose.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall said, her voice echoing in the enclosed space. "Before we begin with the start-of-term feast, we will sort all the new students into one of four houses. The houses will act as your support, and your study mates, during the years you spend at Hogwarts. Ideally, they will also be your friends.

"The four houses are different, and value different traits," McGonagall continued, "But that will be explained during the Sorting Ceremony. For now, I'll just say one thing: Your house does not determine who you are. Please, do not feel compelled to change yourself to fit in with the rest of your house. Likewise, do not judge other people for the house that they find themselves sorted into.

"Your actions will reflect upon your house, however. If you do well, your house will earn points. If you misbehave, your house will lose points. The house with the highest points, at the end of the year, will win the House Cup. This is not a light achievement.

"Please wait here, until I finish organising the Sorting Ceremony," McGonagall said, "I will be back momentarily. Please, remain quiet. Any childishness will be punished by docking points from your house, once you are sorted. Your housemates will not be pleased."

McGonagall turned, and strode from the room, closing the door behind her.

"What do you know about the four houses?" Isobel asked me.

"Gryffindor for bravery, Ravenclaw for intellect, Hufflepuff for loyalty, and Slytherin for evil," I said, "At least, that's what I've heard."

Isobel laughed, but I could tell she was annoyed. "It's not quite like that. It should be, 'Slytherin for ambition.' But of course, the Dark Lord was Slytherin, so the entire house must be evil."

"It's not just Voldemort who was evil-"

"Shh," Isobel said. Several nearby students gave me fearful glances. Several muggleborns were giving them curious stares.

"What?" I said.

"Don't use his name," Isobel said, "Call him You-Know-Who, or the Dark Lord. They say, if you use his name, he can find you."

"But he's dead," I said, "So he can't do anything."

"The Dark Lord might be gone," Isobel said, "But not all of his followers. You do not want to make them angry."

"Okay," I said. It made sense not to unnecessarily aggravate people.

"Well, as I was saying," I said, "It's not just the Dark Lord who was evil. I've read A History of Magic, and Slytherin had a lot more criminals than the other houses. The other houses barely had any."

"Not Gryffindor," Isobel countered, "Some of the worst dark wizards were Gryffindors. Take Herpo the Foul, for instance. Do you think a member of any other house would be stupid enough to try and hatch a basilisk?"

I frowned, "Bathilda Bagshot argues that the stories about him being a Gryffindor were falsified. Herpo was a parselmouth, and therefore, an heir of Slytherin."

"Bagshot is a Gryffindor, herself," Isobel said, "Of course she would attempt to clean the reputation of her house."

"That's not fair," I said, "You can't ignore everything that somebody says, just because of which house they came from."

"Well, think about it," Isobel said, "By now, Salazar Slytherin has probably had dozens of heirs. Do you really think that every one would have a Slytherin personality? There is nothing stopping each heir from being different from the last, unless you believe in the generational possession theory, which is, quite frankly, ludicrous."

"The what theory?" I asked.

Isobel sighed, "I feel bad just telling you it exists. Oh, very well. Some people, who are not at all credible, believe that Salazar Slytherin has repeatedly possessed the mind of his child. They say that Slytherin's heir is, quite literally, Slytherin himself. They claim this is why the Heir can always speak parselmouth.

"Let me make this clear," Isobel said, "There is no reason to believe this theory is true. And there are quite a lot of reasons to believe it is nonsense."

"Okay," I said, "I'll accept that Herpo was probably a Gryffindor." For now. I would be studying this more later, but currently, I didn't have the armament to argue these points. "But that's only one example. Who else is there?"

"From memory, we have Malcolm Alley, Dugwick Anderson, Andrea Artis, Reginald Bartlesby—I can keep going for a long time." Isobel said, "I've memorised quite a list. Or, we could take more recent history. We know that either Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, or Albus Dumbledore revealed the Potters' location to Lord Voldemort, and all of them are Gryffindors. They were the only people who knew the secret.

Isobel paused. "I guess the Potters could also have revealed it. But that seems unlikely, and anyway, they were also from Gryffindor."

"Okay," I said, "You win. Gryffindors can also be evil. But it doesn't matter, anyway. I'm obviously going to be a Ravenclaw."

"Don't be too certain," Isobel said, "Quite a few people end up in a different house than they expected."

We went silent, after that. I was thinking about the houses, and which I would be sorted into.

Despite what Isobel had just said, I was definitely a Ravenclaw student. I derived my identity from my intelligence, more than anything else. I had rejoiced, internally, when I heard that Ravenclaw had their own exclusive library. And none of the other houses seemed to fit.

I heard a scream, shocking me out of my thoughts. No, two or three screams, coming from the other students in the room. I looked up-

-and saw a transparent, blueish spectre, moving through the walls. He floated several metres off the ground. He was a ghost; I recognised them from scary movies and horror books. A pale visage of somebody long dead. Specifically, a monk, and quite a rotund one.

The door opened, and McGonagall rushed in. Seeing the ghost, she sighed, and muttered, "Thoughtless creatures."

"Okay, everybody," McGonagall said, her voice ringing through the room, "This is just a ghost. They're not dangerous, and can't harm you. Please calm down."

Turning to the ghost in question, she asked, "Friar, could you please be careful. Some of these children have never seen spirits before."

The friar startled, and then peeped down at McGonagall, "Oh, I apologise," He said, "It seems I wasn't looking where I was going."

He turned to face us. "New students, are you? I hope to see some of you in Hufflepuff. Well, off I go, before I interfere with your Sorting."

The Friar flew away, and disappeared through the far wall. I shivered a tiny bit.

I saw other children look around, fright evident in their faces. Megan Jones and Kevin Entwhistle were among them, along with Harry Potter, on the other side of the room. The muggleborns seemed the most startled, while most of the others were wearing easy grins. Some had ignored the interruption, and continued in their conversations.

Everything was so unusual here. I had just been starting to grow accustomed to magic, and then I saw a ghost. Hogwarts was a strange place.

* * *

**Student Taxonomy**

McGonagall formed us into a single line, arranged according to our last names. With the name 'Granger,' I was near the front. Isobel MacDougal was with her sister, in the middle of the line, near Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter wasn't much further back.

When we were organised, McGonagall marched us into the Great Hall.

It was even larger than the Entrance Hall. The room was filled with tables, and probably a thousand students. Candles floated above the tables, each burning more brightly than a lantern. Unlike the Entrance Hall, whose roof was shrouded in darkness, this room appeared to have no roof. Looking upwards, you could see the sky, dotted with hundreds of bright, twinkling stars.

There was no breeze, and the candles didn't splutter, so I suspected there was an invisible shield protecting us from the wind and weather. It was another thing to research, once I got to the library. May Wilson, the salesperson at Flourish and Blotts, had suggested I check out Hogwarts, A History. It would explain any magic at work around the castle.

The students weren't the only people in this room. At the far end, sitting at their own table, were the Hogwarts teachers. Additionally, the edges of the room were holding quite a few ghosts. Some gestured as we entered the room.

McGonagall took us to the front of the Hall. A short, four-legged stool had been placed out the front, where everybody in the room could see. Upon it was a rough, dirty hat.

After several moments, a rip opened in the hat's torso. The shape seemed evocative of a human mouth.

The Sorting Hat grinned, and then began to sing.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,"

"But don't judge on what you see…"

It had a loud, clear voice, and didn't seem bothered by the fact that it lacked lungs and a voice box. It sang in a modern English accent. I didn't find that unusual at the time, but later, I was told the Hat had been created hundreds of years previously, back when Hogwarts was founded.

The Hat was a magical object that had the ability to learn. That's why, despite the English language changing, the Hat wasn't only able to continue communicating in up-to-date dialects, it was able to create effective poetry.

Alternately, it was just a puppet controlled by a wizard hiding in the next room.

The Hat finished with, "…For I'm a thinking cap!" The students burst into applause, and I joined them. It was really quite a good song.

Not only was it enjoyable to listen to, it had been informative. The Hat explained the process of the Sorting Ceremony, and described the four houses. It had also used humour, and inserted tones of 'Don't Panic' into the song, to calm the more nervous students.

The Hat bowed to each of the house tables, before going still again. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a scroll of paper. She waited for the applause to abate, before she started to talk.

"I will call out your name," She said, "When I do, please walk slowly forward, and sit on this stool. Place the Sorting Hat atop your head, so that you can be sorted. Now, let's see."

McGonagall's eyes dropped to the paper, and she called out, "Abbot, Hannah."

Hannah Abbot was a small girl, with blonde pigtails. She ran forward, and hopped onto the stool. McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat onto her head, but it was too large, and it fell down to cover her eyes.

It made one wonder if the Hat was originally used to Sort adults. They never planned to have every student sorted at 11. If they had, they would have made the hat more appropriately sized.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hat called out. The yellow table applauded, along with the teachers, and one or two students from each of the other houses. The Hat was lifted from the girls head, and she ran towards the Hufflepuff table.

Next, McGonagall called 'Bones, Susan,' who was also Sorted into Hufflepuff. Then, there was 'Terry, Boot,' who was Sorted into Ravenclaw. After that, there was 'Brocklehurst, Mandy,' and 'Brown, Lavender,' and a whole host of other names. I quickly forgot most of them.

It didn't take long before McGonagall called out, "Granger, Hermione."

* * *

**Personality Typecasting**

I sat on the stool, and placed the worn hat on my head. My bushy hair prevented it from falling over my face.

"Ahh, interesting," Said a voice, whispering into my right ear, "Plenty of intelligence, I see. You also have the ambition to use that intelligence to accomplish great things."

"Ambition?" I said, except that I wasn't actually speaking. I was forming the words, and sending the nerve impulses, but my lips were prevented from moving. "You mean I could be a Slytherin?"

"No," The Hat replied, "Salazar Slytherin had rather strict requirements for students of his house, and one of those prohibits muggleborns from entering. I cannot send you to Slytherin."

"Well, good," I said, "I didn't want to go there anyway."

Now that I was prohibited, a small part of me did want to join Slytherin. I ignored it.

"Can I go to Ravenclaw?" I asked.

"Wait a moment," The Hat said, "You are a good match for Ravenclaw, but you also have hidden bravery, and would fit Gryffindor quite well. You have a choice."

For a split second, I was tempted. I had read many stories, from The History of Magic, of brave Gryffindor heroes who saved the day. It was heady to think I might be one of them.

But I wasn't ignorant. Courage wasn't the only thing that could save the world. Intelligence, strategy, and science were just as effective, usually more so. Gryffindors weren't people gifted with the ability to make a difference. They were those who, in the process of trying to make a difference, were willing to trade safety for a chance at fame.

I wasn't that person. I had never been that person, and surely the Hat realized that. "No, thank you," I said, "I'm definitely not a Gryffindor. I want to join the house that can help me learn everything."

"Very well," Said the Sorting Hat. "RAVENCLAW!"


End file.
